Drag Marks
by Soncnica
Summary: The words left unspoken can drag you in the lonliest of places. But there is someone who'll follow your drag marks.


**This is a story I came up with while doing my hunt story. I would like to thank HollyBush for beta-ing this for me...thank you. If there are still any mistakes...it's all my fault. **

**Enjoy. **

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**Drag Marks**

"I can't…" a small whisper was heard in the dark room. Shits rustling, moving with the weight of the body lying underneath them. The bed squealed a little when a hand reached for the cover. It clenched the end of the thin yellowish blanket, squeezing it hard, almost painful. But the pain was a distraction from the pain in his head.

Insomnia is…freaking frustrating. Lying on top of your bed, still, so that you don't wake up the person next to you. Staring at the ceiling, banging your head against the pillow. Looking left and right. You draw circles on the mattress with your hand, feeling it slide beneath your fingers. You try and you try to be quiet, but the shits are noisy and the bed isn't making things any better. The light is dim, no moon tonight, no cars outside, no other noise but the breathing. The sound that usually lulls you to sleep making you nervous right now. You wanna scream as loud as you can to just stop the racket, but… there is no noise to stop. Just the breathing. Deep and slow. You don't wanna stop the breathing. The breathing means your brother is still alive.

It makes your belly sank lower into the pits of nausea. You want to get up, go somewhere, but you can't. You can't move. You can't think straight. You're sleepy but when you close your eyes…there are just too many pictures playing in your mind. You can't control them now, no more than you can control them when you're awake. They suck you in, chew you up and spit you out. And you end up like this. Empty and tired. You dig the palm of your hand in your eyes, trying to push back the picture display, push hard till it almost hurts, then you let go. You don't wanna damage your eyes. They are a part of you after all, means of _protection_.

Trying to make as little noise as possible, but still enough.

"Dean?" Shit, Sam's awake.

"Goddammit Sam, you scared the crap out of me!"

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong." Denial would bring you very far, if this wasn't your little brother you were talking to.

"Jeez, Dean. You've been tossing and turning in that bed for hours. Just spill."

"Sam, it's nothing."

"Fine."

"Fine." And you turn around away from your brother and stare at the window. Well it's a nice change from the ceiling. You've examined it from left to right, up and down. Nothing new, nothing old. The same three stains three inches from the left corner, two cracks five inches going vertical with the right side of the room. Yeah, really exciting.

And deep down you're happy there isn't anything on the ceiling. No Mom, no little brother's girlfriend. Just cracks and stains.

But the window. Well that's a whole new thing. A new adventure. Something new to ponder about. It gives you so many options to investigate. You can look at the curtain, yellow, of course. It has to match the covers…of course. Where would we be without matching things? It's probably the same as it is with socks, you think. They have to match, they just have to.

It's a small window, dirty, hasn't been cleaned in a while. You noticed that when you first arrived.

It's dark. Just the stars tonight. There's not even a street lamp anywhere. Just darkness. And the florescent light from the alarm clock, making the room look green. Great, yellow and green. Well it could be worse. It could be pink and red. You smile slightly at that thought.

Your right hand slightly bent under your head, your left one still clutching the blanket. And your leg falls asleep. Great, more noise. You have to straighten it.

"Dean for god's sake, would you just fall asleep?!"

"Sam just…shut up, O.K.?"

"Fine."

"Fine." And that gives you another five minutes before Sam will bug you again.

A car passes by. Noise. Thank God. It's a nice two second distraction from the voices in your head. Great, the voices have started. Just…great. Not long now and Sam will call the men in the white van. You know you wouldn't look good in a rubber room. Closed up in a little room, no where to go, no girls, _without Sam, alone_. And then you think, well maybe Sam will join you. It's really not that far fetched. With the line of work you're in…but…

_No, Sam wouldn't call anyone. _

_Would he? _

And then you're back to the voices. They pull you in, take you with them. They mix together, talking all at once, over and over, screaming at you, whispering, rustling around in your head, and alongside with the sound of breathing they make you dizzy. You want to puke them out, flush them down the toilet. But then again, that would make noise. And noise would wake up brother dearest.

One voice is of your mother, you can tell. It's the one who's the softest and that's never yelling. It's just talking, slowly uttering words of comfort, of love. Telling you to be strong, to be careful, and to be what you are, to be kind, to be respectful.

The second one is of your father, just a simple "look out for your brother", "look after him _and yourself"_. Strict but love…even in the harshness of it you can feel it. Love.

There are others, screaming at you with their piercing voices, shrieking words of pain, need, fear. Hideous voices, awful words that only one voice can overcome. You can distinct it from all the others. You can isolate it, take it with yourself in a room that you build in your mind. Where you can be alone with it, to really hear it. And right now, it's telling you that he's scared.

"…scaring me."

And in the mix of all the voices it's your brothers that brings you back. Here…now. When you're in no way to be reached, it's your brothers voice that pulls you back. Always has. You blink.

You feel a hand on your shoulder, fingers digging in your collar bone, putting just the right amount of pressure on it that lets you know you need to turn around. Now, or it will dig further. Breaking it?_No, Sam wouldn't do that. _

"What?" your voice cracks a little, sudden and sharp, and you know you shouldn't snap on Sam. You mustn't blame Sammy.

The hand on your shoulder goes away, slides off and the warmth it brought vanishes in the cool air. You want it back, need the warmth back. You shift, turn fully around, your hip collides with your brothers. Contact. The warmth is back. You look up from the pillow and the first thing you notice, even if the room is dark, are the eyes. Shining out concern. Glowing in the green light, _what's the time. _The light makes them look even greener then they usually are. Like grass after pouring rain. Bright and clear…and wet.

"Just tell me what's wrong, Dean."

And the sound of your brothers voice, dragging sleepiness with him and soft…trying not to make to much noise, _you bet_.

You want to tell him everything, you want him to understand what's wrong, you need him to understand, you know you'll break if you don't. Your soul will crack, it will leave peaces scattered around your brothers feet. _Maybe someday_, you will tell him. You will grab the words and pull them out of your throat where they've been stuck since, since…your fathers death. He is dead!_He can't be dead. He just can't be. _But hope will get you nowhere. They say hope is the last thing to die, but you know that's a lie. It's a frigging lie. A lie that just…hurts…too…much.

The eyes are still too bright for your liking. Sam, Sammy, just drop it, please. Please drop it, go to sleep, please, not now, not now, just go to sleep, _please_.

Another car passes. Another noise breaking the voices in your head. You want to go to sleep. Nothing else matters, just sleep. You could sleep now. Sammy, please just drop it.

"Dean, please." And there it is. The only word in the whole wide world that can break you. _Please_. Sam went for the heavy artillery, _shit_. He knows you to well.

You lay still on your bed, warm beneath your covers, leg still asleep, you can't even feel it anymore. Your left hand still clutching the blanket, knuckles turning white. You hope Sam didn't notice. You're bent awkwardly by the weight of your brother on the mattress. Leaning on him.

You shift your gaze to the over explored ceiling and will yourself to ignore Sam. Maybe he'll go away. Yeah, like that's gonna happen. He's like this annoying fly buzzing around your ear. Even if you slap it away, it always comes back.

But if you won't talk…you know it will break you, you know it will drag you into a place you're scared to go. It will grab you by your soul and pull you kicking and screaming somewhere between a heart beat and silence. Between a breath and drowning. Between loneliness and Sam. And you'll pray along the way that Sam will be able to read your drag marks. To come and save you. If he'll want to save you. _He'll want to save me, right? _Note to yourself: need to make the drag marks deep and wide.

You stare at those eyes, soulful, bringing the world to you. How can you tell your brother you'll have to either save him or kill him? _Kill him! Kill him?_

You can't sit him in your lap and tell him, you can't tell him when you're older you'll understand, you can't tell him that. Your brother…kill him?! The thought makes your stomach turn upside down. Those eyes digging into you aren't helping either.

You let go of the cover you've been holding for dear life, push Sam away. Your bare feet collide with the rough carpet, your leg is still asleep and you fall. You fall deeper and deeper until you hit something solid. The floor is lovely at this time of the night. Just wonderful. As you lay there you come up with several ads that a tourist agency could use to promote this floor. It stinks of sweaty feet, good for asthma patients. It's hard, good for patients with back problems. It's a strong, darkish yellow color, great if you're color blind. You'll enjoy; no doubt about it.

It must have been a spectacular fall, because somewhere deep in your mind you can hear Sam's voice. You take it with yourself into that room. Isolate it from all the others. And you hear fear in it.

"Dean?" the voice brakes a little. You can hear the rustling of the sheets, feet pounding on the floor, coming closer to your head. You see the feet first, then a joint pops when Sam kneels next to you, and then you see the eyes again. You would never ever admit to anybody, even if they torture you in the most unspeakable ways, that those eyes ground you. Even if they're hiding beneath all of that hair.

And the warmth is back on your shoulder, fingers clutching your collar bone. You pull all the strength you can muster into pulling yourself up. Sam's hand helps a little. Alright, a lot.

And you make a sprint to the bathroom. You hit a chair on the way there, bumping in your stomach, your eyes roll in the back of your head. A grunt escapes your lips alongside with some spit. You stop a little by the doorframe, right hand on the wooden frame, steadying you.

You see the toilet, shining in the street light coming from outside of the window. It's where you need to go. Now!

You don't even wanna think about the place. It'll drain the life out of you if you give a second thought about the bathroom. You just dive to the floor, knees hitting it a little too harshly,_ shit, that hurt_, and alongside with the pain, coldness flashes up your thighs into your stomach, up your throat and down the toilet. The necklace hitting the white yellowish porcelain, over and over again. Thump, thump, thump, as you lower your head into the toilet.

Closing your eyes doesn't help, because it makes your head spin, but it's such a natural response that you can't ignore it.

Your hand goes alongside the toilet seat, fingers gripping the sides of it, it smells of urine, and you heave again.

_Save Sam._

There goes your breakfast.

_Protect Sammy._

There goes your lunch.

_Kill Sammy._

There goes your dinner.

Everything's spinning around in the blue water at the end of the toilet, where you toss a dead fish. O God, _dead_. Everything just spinning and spinning and spinning, _out of control_. Pickles, coffee, some kind of orange dressing, _orange?,_ some hamburger meat, bread, onion, salad, _salad?_ It all leaves a sour taste in your mouth, like something died in there.

A light turns on. It reaches your eyes and it stings.

The voices in your head telling you to get yourself together, boy. You know it's your fathers. And a voice in the room telling you to relax.

"Relax, Dean. Hey, hey, hey, easy, it's alright." an easy and low voice, a voice that even darkness would fall asleep to.

No, Sammy, it's not alright. You would yell that at the top of your lungs if you could. If your food would just…stay…down. _Please, stay down._ But your stomach won't stop cramping. It's like someone is fisting the tissue inside it. It's all dry heaving now. Just spit dripping from your open mouth. You wish words would follow.

Your throat raw and sore, the pungent smell making you even sicker. You wanna leave, go back to bed. You shake slightly, shivers of cold going through your arms, neck straight to your head.

Then the warmth is back. It's on your shoulder at first, then it moves down your spine and stops in the middle of your back. But it moves throughout your body. Wrapping you. Covering you.

You try to raise your hand to your forehead to wipe away the droplets of sweat that are making their way down your brow, but it's just to heavy. Its like lead is attached to it. You rest your right elbow on Sam's knee, it's a soft place, a warm place. Your short hair is drenched in sweat, the shirt drinking most of it when it flows down your back and chest. You breathe deep, suck in the stale smell coming from the toilet. You raise your head to escape it but it falls back down. You hit the toilet seat with a thud. Pain shoots up your head, silencing all the voices but one.

"Dean, jeez. Hey. Shit."

And you feel a hand on your forehead, it's cool and soft and it dulls the pain. It raises your head from the seat and you lean on it.

"Dean, come on. Hey, easy, just take it easy."

Sam…I can't take it easy. Dad said…he said…I have to…

"M' O.K." you try to sound convincing but the rawness of your throat makes it a little…hard. Your voice is thick and rough.

"Dean what's wrong with you?"

Oh, Sammy nothing's wrong with me. Nothing at all.

"Sammy…" you don't know why you said that.

The hand on your forehead moves a little, and you sincerely hope it won't go away. You lean on it some more, making it your own. You're weak, and Sam knows that. He'll rub this in, you're sure of it.

Sam's kneeling beside you, you can smell his shower gel. It smells fresh, it covers the acid smell of your vomit.

He's near you, like always. You realize he was always there. Even when he was in school, he was there. He was in your head. The voice you locked in the little room in your head.

The voice that grounds you, those eyes that bring all emotions at once, the warmth from your brother's hand sending shivers of heat through your cold, cold mind. But it's not cold. It's lacking words, it's searching words to say…that you have to kill your brother if you can't save him.

Sam's hand on your back, going up and down, Sam's hand on your forehead, supporting you through another dry heave.

"Dean, its O.K. Just…you'll be fine, alright?! Just take it easy, alright?!"

You wanna scream that it won't be, that it won't be alright, that everything's going down the drain. Literally. You groan.

"Sammy…" again, no idea.

There are tears forming in your eyes, they sting and you don't know if it's because of the vomiting or because you honestly just wanna lie down and cry. Cry your fathers words out, make them in a pool of salty water on the floor. Let the floor deal with it.

A lonely tear slides down your cheek, feather like, you can barely feel it. But it's there. Sam knows, but he doesn't say anything.

You move your hand so that you're resting her on your brothers thigh. You dig your fingers in his sweats, holding them. You're pretty sure you grabbed some skin there too, but Sam didn't even flinch. He just leaned his hand on top of yours, still supporting your head.

You spit some saliva into the toilet. You really should flush it, the vomit in it is to much to look at. And again you try to raise your hand to flush, but it's futile. Sam knows. He catches your floating hand mid air, places it back on his thigh, and flushes the toilet. You loose his hand on your back momentarily when he does that, and you're lost. You need it back.

You leave everything unsaid. But you know that, in the long haul, it will drag you in a space between Sam and solitary. And still, you leave everything unsaid, _for now anyway. _

You just can't find the words. Maybe someday, _soon_.

Sam's hand is back on your back. You're here again.

"Sammy…" It's just a name, really. But it's the name of the only person who'll know how to read your drag marks.

You sit back on the cold tiles, Sam moves his hand from your forehead, when he's settled your head back on your neck. The hand on your back remains.

Maybe it's because he needs it there as much as you do, or he's just not so sure that you can sit straight.

You catch your breath, for a second it gets stuck in your throat, and you swallow it down. It doesn't make a sound when it collides with your lungs. Everything is silent again.

Just you and Sam's breathing next to you. You lean into his hand, _don't leave_, warm and soft.

Your head throbs from the 'accident' with the toilet seat. Just wanna lie down.

When you catch your breath properly you have to do damage control.

"It's something I ate." the voice is still too hazy.

"Sure."

"Sam, drop it." You know you scared the crap out of Sam with the harshness of that sentence. Not to mention the throwing up and calling his name several times.

You look at him, his eyes looking back at you. You would break if he said anything right now, and he knows. You see panic in there, oceans of fear and disbelieve. You are pretty sure your eyes reflect the same. And Sam knows.

"Sure."

"Fine."

"Fine."

He doesn't believe you. But he'll drop it. You know he will. You can see it in his eyes, the same eyes that are signaling you that he'll not drop it for long. You stand up, leave Sam's hands to fall at his sides. You stumble a little, Sam's arm is right there, supporting you. You shake it of, walls drawn back up.

And you drag your ass back to bed. It's still warm. And as you lay on your back, staring on the ceiling you pray Sam will know how to follow your drag marks.

"Dean?"

And the delicate whispering voice near you tells you that Sam will follow your drag marks. Deep and wide, it doesn't matter, as long as you remember to make them. _That's my boy._


End file.
